


Oh Darling, I’ll be Yours to Hold

by Hepsia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Bottom Germany (Hetalia), Depictions of depression, Drabble, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, Ivan Braginsky Needs a Hug, Living with repressed trauma, M/M, Top Russia (Hetalia), sad boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29652357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hepsia/pseuds/Hepsia
Summary: Oh, to be a Dreamwalker, like that of fairy tales, so that Ludwig can vanquish the sadness in Ivan’s heart and see him smile at the world again.
Relationships: Germany/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Oh Darling, I’ll be Yours to Hold

Ivan doesn’t talk about his past.

Ludwig had tried asking a few times before, but now knows that it is one of those few forbidden territories that cannot be breached by casual conversation. Three years into their relationship has taught him much about the love of his life, but Ludwig still finds himself wondering why Ivan continues to refuse any acknowledgement of things that bother him so.

Despite the persistent denial, Ivan is often plagued by these faceless, nameless horrors in the dead of night. Ludwig is a light sleeper, and so he is always the first to wake. The most effective routine is a simple one: he reaches out and presses one flat of his palm against Ivan’s sweaty brow, and the other hand will rub circles over where the frantic heart threatens to beat right out of Ivan’s heaving breast. 

The touches bring Ivan back into consciousness without fail. His thrashes slowly cease to a halt, and he falls back against his pillow, exhausted. Two broad hands reach up to cup Ludwig’s face, until Ivan is the first to break contact. The sheets rustle where he rolls to get comfortable again, and when Ludwig lies back down himself, Ivan’s arm is always lying in wait over his spot to pull him close. 

“Sorry,” Ivan murmurs, just like he always is.

“Forgiven,” Ludwig whispers back, just like he always does.

And they would fall asleep to the rhythm of each other’s breaths, and Ludwig would feel the hot wetness of Ivan’s tears as he lets them fall unknowingly against Ludwig’s nape. 

Sometimes he will catch Ivan staring at their TV with eyes that never absorb the flashing images. Sometimes he will glance outside the window that Ivan would be looking through, but see nothing there but the brick wall of their neighboring complex. But even during these moments, Ivan never feels too far away. He registers small noises. Turns to give Ludwig his attention whenever he speaks. Smiles when he needs to.

Ivan does a lot of that—smiling. But the days soon marched into weeks, months, then years, and suddenly Ludwig feels like it rarely reaches his eyes anymore.

The only times where Ludwig catches a glimpse of the old Ivan is when that smile is directed at him; there is happiness that pulls at the corners of his mouth and lights up his gaze. But all of this is transient, gone in a mere blink when Ivan returns to the TV or window again, when he has chosen to remove Ludwig from his line of sight.

Whatever wounds Ivan is hiding from him, they make themselves known even during their more intimate moments together. His senses are dulled in the heat, fingers twisted into the sheets as Ivan pounds into him from above. Ludwig’s stamina is no laughing matter, but Ivan is not made of this world, and when he begins preparing for the fifth round after finishing their fourth merely minutes ago, Ludwig cannot smother the plaintive whine that escapes his lungs. 

“One more time?” Ivan asks, even though he’s already pressing his hardening cock against Ludwig’s swollen hole. 

He is surrounded by used condoms on either side, some of them haphazardly tied and leaking onto the sheets. Ludwig cracks open bleary eyes and looks up at the man he loves, wheat blond hair plastered to his brow, arms straining to hold up his weight, eyes almost black with desire. 

Even through his dumb, post-orgasmic haze, Ivan is beautiful, and looks so very ravishing under that sheen of sweat. Ludwig cannot think, cannot speak—so he simply grits his teeth and lifts his hips up with his last remaining strength, spearing himself down on Ivan’s penis in one go.

Ivan fucks him like the world is ending, and Ludwig can only hold on for dear life as he is rammed again and again. The force has gradually pushed them up the bed until they reach the top. Ludwig barely registers the way his head slams repeatedly into the headboard with each thrust—only it never really does, for something is breaking the impact. Ivan’s hand cushions the ruthless collisions between Ludwig’s skull and the hardwood surface, and not once does it fall away.

“Doing so good,” Ivan grunts, and he has suddenly changed his angle so that stars explode in the corners of Ludwig’s already blackening vision. “Let’s come together.”

“C-ca—” Ludwig’s vocabulary has abandoned him, as all five senses are invaded by the overwhelming intensity of pleasure and Ivan. “Can’t—c-come—anym—!”

A rough hand—the one not currently keeping his head from being split open— is circling his weeping cock, and Ludwig sobs at the touch. His chest feels like it will burst from the overstimulation, and there is nothing else left to exist in his world except for Ivan. Pain and pleasure are one and the same. Ivan’s grip is velvet steel around his purpling length, jerking him in sync with his wild thrusts. Ludwig’s drained balls are tightening in futile attempt to ejaculate a final time. His orgasm bludgeons the edge of his feeble consciousness with earth-shattering force, and he comes and comes until he can’t remember what it was like to not be coming. 

When Ludwig comes to, it must be some moments after the climax, for he had clearly blacked out from what he thinks was the best sex he had in his life. But apparently he is alone in thinking this, because Ivan is draped over him, his massive, naked body shaking like a frightened hare as he weeps into Ludwig’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” Ivan chokes. “I’m sorry.”

It is the first time he sees Ivan’s tears, open and audible as opposed to the silent ones in the darkness of night. And Ludwig knows it’s not just for the rough sex, which he doesn’t have enough air in his lungs to explain that he loved it. He wants to reach up, to embrace the man in his arms and tell him things will be all right. That these things take time to process and verbalize, and Ludwig is willing to wait as long as he needs for Ivan to muster his courage and face his monsters. 

His limbs, however, feel like water and lead. There is no chance he will use them any time soon. So, he hopes that a simple press of his mouth into the crook of Ivan’s neck is solace enough, as Ivan cries and holds Ludwig like a child would a lost teddy bear.

What is once lost will find its way back in some way. Ludwig hopes it is not far from here. He blows a stream of air over Ivan’s skin, tickling his ear. Amidst his tremulous sobs, Ivan manages a wobbly giggle.

Ludwig laughs—a weak rush of air. He looks forward to Ivan smiling again.


End file.
